Crimes of Passion
by Bright Ophelia
Summary: Guilt. Doubt. Distrust. Knotted together with the thin skein of fear is what holds her together and binds her soul to an all too eager accomplice who dangles the sole truth above her head. Or, the liaison of Jane Foster, a murderer and her co-conspirator, Lukas "Loki" Odinson.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: Speak of the Devil**

**A/N: I do not own a thing. Except the plot.**

* * *

"Don?"

No answer.

"Don?"

No answer.

"DON!"

No answer.

"DONALD!"

Of course there was no answer.

But how she wished there was. Even that sneer that had consumed her with all consuming fury would be the most welcome sign for her –

Her hands hadn't stopped shaking and she felt like she was going to vomit or faint.

She didn't know which was worse.

Her cellphone lay on the coffee table, untouched and waiting, as if daring her to make a move.

_What was she supposed to do?_

There wasn't a single sound in the house. Or outside the house – nothing.

The shouting next door had died, the dog had been told to shut up and the baby had gone to sleep.

She took a deep breath and forced down the nausea. The urge to spill every scream that was her thundering heart almost choked her but with shaking hands, shaking limbs she crawled across the floor and gently placed her two fingers on the wrist of her once boyfriend, now motionless on her carpet.

Nothing.

She had only confirmed what she had already known.

_What had she done?_

- all for a theory –

The said theory, written up as a long, elaborated thesis was spread out on her computer desk, the clean white sheets of printing paper reflecting the lamp that shone down on it like a ray from the heavens.

It made the paper seem even more unnaturally white.

It was laughing at her. The paper, black letters in Times New Roman, everything was laughing at her.

The clock, the desk, the windows, the curtains, the light in the kichen, everything –

_Oh goody two shoes Jane Foster who never ever set foot near a police office, what have you done?_

She wanted the floor to swallow her up. To eat her alive. To hell with science and liars and, and –

- herself.

The agony of dread, loathing, fear and terror knocked her down as she doubled over, clawing at herself.

_**Someone, anyone, please help me. Please, anyone?! God, please. Any god. Please help me, someone –**_

The front door swung open and the bells she had installed last week chimed, announcing the arrival of a visitor.

The answer to her call.

Goosebumps made their way up her spine in a wink and she stayed on the floor, petrified with absolute horror –

_How could she have forgotten to lock the door?_

_ - It wasn't you, it was Don._

She almost screamed at that voice of reminder and frustrated hatred shot up again.

He was no use in life and in –

"Well, well Jane. I see you're in a spot of trouble."

She didn't know whether to let go of the bubbling hysteria as the familiar voice of Lukas greeted her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1: Sinnerman**

* * *

_Well I run to the rock, please hide me..._

* * *

"Help me."

It wasn't a request; it was giving up. A last plea.

_(It became the hook.)_

"Have you touched anything?"

"No. Only… him. His blood, the carpet -"

"Go wash your hands. Don't get blood on anything."

He pulled her up by the arm and opened the door to the bathroom behind him. He pushed her inside and turned the faucet on.

Her hands were still shaking.

* * *

_ But the Lord said, go to the devil_  
_The Lord said, go to the devil_  
_He said, go to the devil..._

* * *

He didn't say anything. At all.

None of the scorn and the sarcasm he seemed to have for her whenever he saw her hanging around his brother. Not even the lilting amusement that he greeted her with moments after he witnessed the spectacle that she got herself into.

He simply asked a few questions; _what happened (i had a row with my ex i pushed him and he's dead), did you push him hard (a bit but he just fell down even with all that height and muscle), why did it happen (he's publishing a thesis based under what is mostly my research and my theories under his name), when did it happen (five minutes before you came in), how did it happen (he called me a fucking clingy pretentious crazy bitch that no one's ever going to take seriously let alone listen to covered up his ears and shouted as if he couldn't give a shit about what) –_

He never raised his voice and didn't even snap but the quiet, soothing monotone (something you might hear in a tape of bedtime stories and poems) demanded absolute truth, accuracy and no buts.

Her heart was continuously hammering and the nausea wasn't helping either.

The frantic possibilities ran hand in hand with her imagination exploding into a vivid vision of what was to come –

_No no no no no no no –_

Halfway through her answers, the thought struck her; why was she telling Lukas all this? She was practically confessing her crime to someone she hardly knew, let alone trusted –

"Jane do you want my help or not?"

His voice called her back again.

"Why are you doing this?"

He didn't answer.

Silence, was the only voice that filled the room and she felt the minutes ticking, her sense of despair shooting up up -

"What can _you_ do?"

He didn't answer that one either and pulled out of his pockets; his cellphone.

"NO!" she jumped out of her seat with a sturdiness in her legs she didn't know had returned to her and claws at his phone like a cat -

He wrenched it out of her grasp and calmly proceeded to dial the necessary digits.

"Do you trust me?

…_ (Will you sell your soul to me?)_" he said simply.

It wasn't a question.

Her heart jumped at the tone at which the words had been spoken; it was so sincere and genuine, a soft lull that was almost caring - she hadn't thought him capable of such vocation. It was also spoken like an order, a brisk wish for her consent, not caring about what she truly had in mind. Whether she had any grounds or evidence to give it or not were of an entirely different matter.

_Did she want a way out or not?_

She saw herself in his eyes; a teary, messy wreck. Every quiver of emotion that hit her heart was showing in her eyes, her face, every inch of her.

She then looked at the eyes that were examining every square muscle on her face; firm, grim, giving nothing away –

and determinedly confident.

Trust wasn't logical or reasonable. It was something accepted with no challenge to it, a comforting lie that was waiting to come true, a raft to hold onto until someone fished you out.

She would take any comfort, any stability that was offered, anything.

_(Will you sell your soul to me?)_

"Yes."

_Why Lukas?_ is all that fills her mind as she seals the pact.

* * *

He didn't bat an eyelid under so much scrutiny and surveillance.

She vaguely recalled someone saying that he was accepted to a drama school which he quit after seven months.

The agreed facts, different angles on her truth, distorted real life events flowed out of his lips smoothly – he'd formed a watertight case for herself in just under 18 minutes.

The police packed up and moved out, satisfied with their statements.

_'If all goes to plan, everything should be over in at most, two weeks…'_

Of all the people that had to find her; _of course Lukas._

* * *

_So I ran to the devil, he was waitin'  
I ran to the devil, he was waitin'  
Ran to the devil, he was waitin'  
All on that day_

* * *

When she was six, she squashed a bee with her knee.

It died; she was stung.

As soon as the initial horror wore off (seeing a yellow and black thing sticking out of her knee wasn't the happiest sight) the pain came crashing down and so did the scream.

* * *

She didn't know what was worse.

Having murdered her ex (by accident), and having to explain that to current boyfriend (as an unfortunate accident).

Or being caught with said boyfriend's younger brother in that unfortunate incident who also somehow all too altruistically assisted her in covering up that murder as a pure accident -

(Don was cremated - how lucky could she get?)

Lukas, had stealthily but purposely avoided her through the whole ordeal. He was only at her side when it was absolutely necessary. Most of the time he was always in his room, reading or outdoors all day, somewhere where no one knew. While she was being smothered and caressed with condolences (that entwined painfully with her own furiously throbbing and swelling guilt) and sympathetic smiles, he lurked in the back with an indifferent air but she knew; she knew he tuned into every movement and every syllable of hers, on every action that surrounded her.

(Perhaps it was her paranoia; it'd been getting to her for the past three weeks - that this was all a dream and she'd wake up in jail, that everyone would turn on her and tear her down for being a killer, that Lukas and had made one fatal slip and that -

she didn't want to consider the possibilities. Paranoid. Yes. Perhaps it was that doubtful restlessness, but even in his moment of complete disinterest and polite acknowledgement as he'd always shown, she detected a sense of mockery at the hypocrite she was. She thought she saw a sardonic smile of _I know exactly what you did - _)

With that increasing realization of what she had committed - and who knew it - her every waking hour was simply an insane cocktail of the most painful spasms of feeling and psychological horrors that she could have ever imagined.

Her seemingly depressed air was taken as distress of having gone through such a traumatic event. It was half true - (she was living a lie, half lies and half truths after that night) and it became a good excuse.

But she could not hide under that facade for long. It would soon expire and then she would have nothing, nothing to seek temporary solace in.

Everyone - Thor, his mother, Erik, her friends - was so kind and understanding she felt she could tear her heart out. They meant well, of course they did but their goodwill was only causing her more misery. Reinforcing the conscious _guilt_ and the voice of blame that never ceased to destroy her emotional control.

She could not talk about it as many encouraged her to. She simply _couldn't._

And what about Lukas?

She needed to talk to him _(how? about what?)_. They had never confronted each other with the plain truth after those fifteen minutes and the fact that someone else knew her secret was equally if not more distressing than what she had done.

She tried to get a word with him - even if she didn't have a clue on what to say to him.

She never got him, just missing him or never finding him.

It was as if he were playing cat and mouse with her, dangling the bait (himself) in front of her only to snatch it back, watching in amusement at how desperate her attempts were.

Then one day, she passed him on the stairs of his house. He, coming down, she going up. He couldn't ignore her now.

"Lukas!"

She grabbed him by the arm.

"Jane!"

The front door opened and Thor came in, calling her name.

"I'm sorry Jane, I need to return this copy of Wuthering Heights to an ex-girlfriend of mine, who has promised to kill me if I don't make it to her's by noon. So if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way. She's said it won't be an accident if she ends up on the nine o' clock news tonight."

And in a bizarre collage of a boyish, cheeky wink and a malicious smile that could have had fangs sticking out, he graciously strolled down the steps and out the front door in a couple of strides, not missing her lip trembling and her jaw dropping.

He wasn't killing time, inviting her to catch him; he was telling her to sit still and bide her time, until he came.

_Wait your turn. I will have my payment._


End file.
